Page 4 of Junie

Chapter Four

In the dog days of August, Junie’s mind lingers on the world of her favorite poems, where chilly fog triumphs over baking sun, and open, watery landscapes supersede prim gardens and dried, rusty dirt. The sun is low now, but its leftover heat still bakes the earth until the smell of hay and horse manure rises out of the soil and through the open windows.

It’s nearly dinner, and after setting the table she wastes time polishing silver underneath the portrait of Mr. McQueen’s father, the old master, who looks like a toad that’s been stepped on. His black eyes are far apart on his wide head, and his chin blends into his neck as though he’d be ready to croak and catch you on his tongue if you step out of line. His portrait is between the two open windows in the room, and on days as hot as this one, she has no choice but to endure his beady stare to get some fresh air.

Beyond the house, the field boys carry the first bushels of cotton off to the gin, tipping the baskets brimming with white orbs into the center while two ancient mules crank them through the machine. The cotton fields outside of the windows ripple in the heat like puddles hit by raindrops; each bulb will make its way onto river steamboats and onward to the cities. Sweat brims on Junie’s collar. How could it be possible, with so much cotton, that the McQueens didn’t have the means to keep the overseer? She sneezes and rubs her eyes as a rare breeze blows loose hay and dust from the haystacks through the windows.

Time has a way of souring memories like milk. When she and Minnie were girls, they played in those same haystacks while Granddaddy tended the horses. Junie used to like climbing to the top of the haystack like it was a mountain in some faraway country. She was too small to lift herself onto the next bale, so Minnie would climb first and pull her up. They’d dangle their feet off the edge, pretending to be princesses ruling over everything they could see. Junie taught her sister to read in secret with Violet’s permission, sharing with Minnie the lessons she learned using Violet’s copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. While Minnie never took to reading the way Junie did, always too afraid of the consequences of her actions, she would play along when Junie acted out Cinderella, giggling when Minnie would slide the invisible glass slipper onto her muddy foot. When Minnie would play Snow White, she’d fall back on the hay and lie still, holding her breath until Junie pounced and shook her to wake her up. Sometimes, Junie would stay back, waiting to see how long her sister could play dead.

A lump grows in Junie’s throat. She turns from the windows and begins to polish a set of forks.

When Junie first started working as a maid, she struggled, leaving corners dusty and linens wrinkled. Carefree, Minnie would scold before pinching her on the arm and sneaking her off to some corner of the house to teach her how to act properly. Minnie’s instructions were always gruff and incomprehensible, and any protest from Junie was met with because I said so, leaving Junie more frustrated than when she started. After two months of bickering and carelessness, Minnie caught Junie crying in the linen closet over a stack of stained hand towels. Junie expected her sister to curse her, but instead, Minnie dropped to her knees and kissed Junie on the head. That day, Minnie gave up on making her sister the perfect maid, instead teaching Junie the best tasks to make it appear like she was working while doing as little work as possible. That was her sister’s way: the sweetness of the rose hidden behind a bush of thorns.

She squeezes her lids together as the salty tears begin to burn like a wound. Junie never had a mother or father, at least not that she could remember. Her mother was sold not long after Junie was born, and her father died of a fever not long after that. Instead, she relied on a constellation of women, working in tandem. Minnie’s maternal instincts had felt bossy and condescending; it is only now that she’s gone that Junie realizes how much her sister guided her way.

The grandfather clock chimes, signaling the start of dinner. Junie scrubs the veneer of silver polish off her hands with her apron as Bess scurries in with the first tray of food. Knowing Auntie, it will be a meal of McQueen’s favorites, crispy roast chicken with mashed potatoes, creamed corn, tomato salad, and a fresh peach pie.

After carrying in the food and placing the last polished fork, Junie stands behind Violet’s chair. The afternoon’s coffee and cornbread have worn off, and she wishes she could lean against the back of the velvet seat.

“They gonna want the fans tonight,” Bess says, straightening the angles of the placemats.

“Oh, please no, Bess. It ain’t even that hot,” Junie says despite profusely sweating underneath her uniform.

“If the master’s home, they gonna want the fans. Now start ’em before they come in so it’s cool in here.”

Junie trudges to the corner of the dining room, where a rope dangles next to Old Toadface. She grips it with both hands and pulls it over and over, moving the giant fans on the ceiling rhythmically. The cuts on her palms from the tree bark that morning sting.

Mrs. McQueen saunters in, taking a seat in the chair Bess has pulled out for her. She examines the silverware before placing the napkin in her lap.

“It seems you girls have taken care to ensure dinner is appropriate for the master’s sudden arrival.”

“Thank you, ma’am, Momma made sure to fix his favorites,” Bess replies, pouring Mrs. McQueen a glass of wine.

“Made sure to prepare his favorites, Bess,” Mrs. McQueen corrects. “Let’s do our best to preserve the language the way the English intended, even if we are in Alabama.”

“Of course, ma’am,” Bess responds with a smile, returning to her spot beneath Old Toadface. Junie steals a look at Bess, her face inscrutable in pleasant servitude. Junie rolls her eyes. Minnie and Bess were always the perfect housemaids who made every edge sharp and every surface reflective. It made Junie believe at times that Minnie and Bess liked being maids, that they were destined for it.

Junie knows she certainly isn’t destined for cleaning up other people’s messes.

Violet arrives next in the itchy, red dress Junie picked out this morning. The white lace neckline frames her collarbone and ample cleavage, while the red ribbon of the bodice emphasizes the gentle curve of her waistline. She crosses her arms over her body as she slinks behind the chair to the left across from her mother. Junie drops the fan rope to pull out her seat.

“Don’t sit down yet. Where did that dress come from?” Mrs. McQueen asks.

“Daddy got it for me on his last trip to New Orleans,” Violet states, smoothing the fabric. “I thought I might wear it since he’s home tonight.”

“Be that as it may, it still seems inappropriate to me for a girl of your age with your figure to wear such a bright color, but I suppose your father isn’t concerned about propriety. I’d prefer to see you in something with a higher neckline.”

Junie tucks one of her fingers down.

On nights when the whole family is home, she keeps tally of the disagreeable comments they make, and places a bet with herself on who will be the first to walk out of the room in a huff; considering the master’s sudden arrival and the fight this morning, Junie assumes Mrs. McQueen will be the winner for the evening.

“Well, I can’t help that I have a bosom, Mother…” Violet whispers.

Junie tucks down another finger.

“Well, isn’t my baby girl a sight to behold in red, just like her daddy!” Mr. McQueen exclaims as he walks into the room. Granddaddy follows behind him, nodding at his granddaughter before pulling out the master’s chair. Junie can tell Granddaddy has tried his best to mask the whiskey smell with the master’s cologne.

“Well, what are we waiting on?” McQueen exclaims, reaching for the mashed potatoes. His wife’s hand shoots out from underneath the table to block the bowl.

“The girls need to serve it properly, William.”

“Now this is my house, Innis, and you ain’t got no right to tell me how to eat my damn food.”

“We ought to say grace, shouldn’t we?” Violet interjects. “I…I’m sure it wouldn’t be right to eat such a lovely meal without thanking the Lord and Savior first, don’t you agree, Daddy?”

McQueen’s gaze drops to his daughter, a satisfied grin spreading across his jaw. “Well, I certainly do, Pumpkin,” he says, seizing Violet’s and Mrs. McQueen’s hands.

McQueen fumbles through the Lord’s Prayer, and Granddaddy points toward the food on the table. Junie drops the fan rope, thankful for a break, and helps Bess heap servings onto each of the McQueens’ plates. By the time the master finishes, they’re back in position as though they never moved. With no acknowledgment of how the food was served, the master seizes a drumstick in his hand, while Mrs. McQueen cuts her meal into infinitesimal bites.

“Now, Violet, don’t you get anything on that pretty dress you got on, I want you to wear that tomorrow when our visitors arrive,” he says with a wink.

“Visitors, Daddy?”

“Yes, Sugar. I’m pleased to announce that tomorrow we’ll be hosting two young guests, a Mr. Beauregard Taylor III and his sister, Miss Beatrix Taylor, of the Delacroix, Louisiana, Taylors.”

“Oh, Daddy, what a hoot!”

Junie holds back a giggle at Violet’s feigned surprise.

“You bet it is, Pumpkin, but it ain’t all fun and games. These are a couple of real blue bloods, not hayseeds like the folks around the county,” McQueen says, tearing into his chicken. “You gotta be sure you look your finest and keep a big smile on that pretty face all day, you hear? No nose in the books, either. Nobody likes a bookworm.”

“She ought not to wear that dress, William,” Mrs. McQueen retorts. “She should wear something in a softer color with a higher neckline.”

The master laughs indignantly. “I don’t see nothing wrong with the dress. I picked it out myself.” He tosses back the last gulp of his third glass of wine before leaning toward his wife. “See, I got a man’s eye, and I know that dress is right. That red suits her, just like her daddy.”

“I’d prefer her to appear a nun than a harlot. Her figure is already more indecent than I’d like.”

Junie balls her hand into a fist, all her fingers tucked. Violet’s arms creep upward to cover her body.

“Why does it matter so much what I wear to see Mr. Taylor?” Violet asks, her tone more accusatory than curious. Junie recalls the glimmer of tears in Violet’s eyes this morning at the mention of the Taylors, the twisting nausea of hearing her family declare Violet’s marriage a foregone conclusion. It could still be possible they were wrong, that Taylor would simply be a man passing in and out of their lives within a week, never to be remembered again. Junie wipes her sweat-slicked, rope-pricked palms on her apron.

A flutter of fear passes over the master’s face. “We just want you to look your best, is all, Sugar,” he replies, squeezing Violet’s hand. “Ain’t that right, Innis? We just want our baby to look her best.”

Mrs. McQueen swirls the wine in her glass by way of an answer.

“I ain’t seen you act this way about guests before, Daddy,” Violet pries. “I’m meant to dress a certain way, I ought not to read while they’re here to impress them, goodness, you even rode home at night to tell Mother this morning.”

“My, you’re as chatty as a bird tonight, Doll Face!” McQueen gulps his wine, clinking his fork against his glass for another. Mrs. McQueen winces.

“It just seems as though these guests are…special.”

“They’re rich, Violet,” Mrs. McQueen says.

“Don’t be at the table like that, Innis. It’s vulgar to talk about money.”

“Oh please, William. If you won’t be honest with her I will. Violet, Mr. Taylor is heir to a cotton-trading fortune in Louisiana and set to inherit his childless uncle’s whole cotton plantation in Selma as soon as he passes. In a few years, he’ll be worth a huge sum of money.”

“I don’t see what that’s got to do with me, Mother.”

“Oh, don’t be so obtuse, Violet. You’ve read enough books to know what it’s got to do with you.”

Violet’s hand crunches into a fist under the table. Junie’s heart sinks.

“What your mother means, Pumpkin, is that we think this Mr. Taylor would be a capital match for you,” Mr. McQueen adds, “but only if you think he’s good enough.”

“Your father and I have already determined that he is good enough, and that should be enough for you,” Mrs. McQueen says firmly. “Violet, you’re to charm Mr. Taylor, and if he offers you his hand, you will accept him as your husband. You will do what is necessary for this family to survive.”

“It’s not necessary, Innis. Stop trying to scare the girl.”

“William, our overseer walked out on us because we hadn’t paid him in over six months! Violet hasn’t had a proper new dress made in months. I’ve hosted every bill collector between here and Mobile, and our cotton gin’s so old it’ll be a wonder if we get a decent harvest this year. With what we have, it would be a miracle if we stay out of bankruptcy another year!”

“Stop it, Innis. Pumpkin, what your momma says ain’t true, and I hope you grow up to have more sense than her when it comes to keeping your nose out of a man’s business. You know Daddy will always take care of you—”

“I don’t want anything about our home to change, Violet,” Mrs. McQueen interrupts. “But when your father dies, Lord may he not, with the way things are right now you and I would be lucky to inherit a cent. A marriage to Mr. Taylor would change our fortunes. If he’s taken with you, his money and social standing would turn everything around for us: pay off our debts, make improvements to the farm, and ensure we keep this house after your father is gone. This is not a choice or a request. It is your responsibility to ensure Mr. Taylor is taken with you. Am I understood, Violet?”

Violet stares blankly at her picked-over dinner.

“Aislinn Violet Margaret McQueen, am I understood?” Mrs. McQueen says.

Junie swallows the urge to scream at Violet, beg her to defy her parents, refuse to marry a stranger, and preserve Junie’s home.

Bess pinches Junie’s arm. “Keep fanning, Junie, you dropped the rope.”

Junie clasps the rope again and pulls.

“Yes, Mother,” Violet says. “I understand.”

“Good, we’ll select an appropriate dress in the morning and—”

Before Mrs. McQueen can finish, Violet tosses her napkin onto her plate. She shoves herself away from the table, grabs the bottom of her dress, and bolts out of the room and up the stairs.

“Junie,” Mrs. McQueen says, her tone unflappable. “Miss Violet is unwell, please go see to her.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Junie answers, rushing up the stairs after Violet.

She’s lost the bet.

—

Pity is the easiest way to turn Violet from melancholy to fuming, a fact Junie has learned that Mrs. McQueen ignores. Junie crisscrosses over the wreckage of red satin and crinolines to sit at the ottoman by Violet’s bare feet, which poke out from underneath her white nightdress.

“How’s the new book?” Junie asks.

“It’s…” She sniffles. “It’s of no circumstance if you ask me. I don’t see why people made such a fuss about it.”

“Then, put that no-good book down. Let’s read Jane Eyre again,” Junie says with a glint in her eye.

Violet smiles, grabbing the copy from the morning off the shelf behind her.

“Let’s skip to the Rochester parts!” Violet says. “Here, this is the quote I like,” she says, pointing to the page. Junie reads as though she is sharing a deadly secret.

“?‘I am no bird; and no net ensnares me…’?”

Violet listens, her thumb between her teeth as she bites down. She turns to look out the window as Junie finishes the paragraph. The room is still, save for a buzzing fly. Junie closes the book, keeping the page with her fingers.

“Violet?” Junie says. “Do you think this Mr. Taylor could be your Mr. Rochester?”

“If he’s friends with my daddy, I surely doubt it. It’s like the book says, Junie. Mother and Daddy want me to be a little bird that only sings and is pretty. And this Mr. Taylor is nothing but a big ol’ net.” Violet sniffs, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. Violet has always seemed to Junie a free person; she gets to spend every day free from work, reading books and hiding from her mother to live life how she pleases. This is the first time it seems that Violet may be pinned.

“You ain’t got to, Vi,” Junie says.

“Got to do what?”

“Let the net…catch you. You could tell ’em no.”

Violet laughs. “I can’t if I want a roof over my head. Mother certainly made that clair comme de l’eau de roche, as the Parisians would say.”

Money never figures into Junie’s life. Worth at Bellereine is judged by the senses, the white vein of fat running through a steak that shows it is more savory than another, the clarity of the piano when it is in perfect tune, the perfume of a rose that announces its superiority.

“But, if it weren’t for the money, do you think you’d still have to marry him?”

“I don’t know, I suppose maybe not,” Violet says with a sigh, climbing out of the chair to take the copy of Wuthering Heights off her shelf. She clutches it to her chest.

“So, if they got the money some other way, you wouldn’t have to marry him?” Junie continues, her mind locked like a cat on a mouse.

Violet drops her shoulders and stares at the ceiling. “Junie, I know you want to be kind, but, I…I can’t talk about it anymore, all right? Can we please just read like old times, and pretend like nobody’s coming tomorrow?”

Junie nods, rolling her teeth under her lips. She’s always disliked Wuthering Heights; Catherine and Heathcliff are frivolous and downright mean, but it is one of Violet’s favorites. Violet plops down into her chair and turns to a dog-eared page.

“Here’s the line I wanted. ‘If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.’ Ain’t that just beautiful, Junie?”

“She does put it in a pretty way, I suppose.”

“Oh, Junie, it’s more than pretty, it’s romantic! It’s the way love should be! Like, once you meet them, you’d do just about anything for that person, like your whole world spins because of them. Like they’re the only one that matters.”

Junie wrinkles her eyebrows. “But you can’t just decide nobody else matters because you’re in love. Besides, if your whole world is just the person you love, what happens when they’re gone?”

“But look at Heathcliff. He gives everything for Catherine, even after she’s dead. He doesn’t care what happens to him, as long as he has his eternal love. That’s how I want to be in love.”

Junie’s lips move to respond as footsteps creak the stairs outside of Violet’s door. The girls jump up; Junie stands at attention while Violet tosses the book across the room and out of view. Three knocks shake the door.

“Come in,” Violet replies.

Mrs. McQueen enters the room, still in her dinner gown with an ivory corset in her hands. Junie curtsies and shuffles toward the wall.

“We need to prepare for tomorrow,” Mrs. McQueen says by way of a greeting. “Junie, fetch a few of Violet’s gowns and crinolines for us to try on her. Violet, stand up and come here, please.”

Junie curtsies and scurries toward Violet’s gown closet down the hall from her room. Despite his daughter’s rarely having an occasion to wear them, Mr. McQueen insists on purchasing Violet a new dress every time he travels to a big city. Junie thumbs through the satins and silks, eventually settling on a blush-toned dress with a cream ribbon at the waist. Violet hates all the dresses her father buys her, but this is the one she seemed to detest the least when she opened the box.

Junie brings the dress into the room as Mrs. McQueen prepares Violet’s corset.

“Mother, I’m tired, can we—”

“Shh. You’ve done quite enough complaining today,” Mrs. McQueen says, wrapping the corset around Violet’s waist. “Tomorrow is too important a day for this family, Lamb. Now, grab the bedpost to steady yourself.”

Violet whimpers as her mother tugs the corset strings like a horse’s reins.

“I can’t breathe, Mother,” Violet says, rubbing her abdomen.

“The waist still isn’t small enough, Violet. No breakfast for you tomorrow; you aren’t to drink even a drop of water before Mr. Taylor arrives, do you understand?”

“I’m sure to faint in this heat if I can’t—”

“You’ll adjust. You need to be perfect,” she says, looking at the rosy-pink gown laid on Violet’s bed.

“Pink,” Mrs. McQueen says, narrowing her eyes and running her finger over the dress as though it were covered in dust. “Pink isn’t Miss Violet’s color. Makes her look far too splotched and red. You’ll do well to learn that.”

“It ain’t Junie’s fault, Mother—”

“I never said it was,” Mrs. McQueen says, turning toward Violet. “She’s your maid, after all; it’s your job to keep her in line and tell her what is what.”

“What, Mother, so since you and Daddy can’t keep the house I’m just supposed take care of my maids, and get money for the house, and look—”

Violet doesn’t finish her thought. Mrs. McQueen’s deft hand shoots from her side and slaps Violet across her cheek. The hand cracks like Granddaddy’s whip on an insolent horse. Junie averts her eyes, imagining the sting on Violet’s cheek. Violet freezes, looking at the rug.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” Violet says.

“I told you not to fuss with me today. Now, stand straight and look forward.”

Violet complies. The red impression on her cheek glows in the candlelight.

“Junie?” Mrs. McQueen calls. “It’s best you leave for supper and start helping in the cookhouse, as I’m sure Marilla will already be preparing. I’ll help Miss McQueen with her dress and will see to her in the morning myself. You’ll be of more use in the cookhouse tomorrow morning, as well, at least until our guests arrive.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Junie mumbles to the hardwood floors. She tries to meet Violet’s eyes in the vanity mirror, but finds only the top of Violet’s head reflected back at her.